Reading Time

I have seen the sun low in the sky,
Casting and refracting lights
I have seen the direction the clouds go by
I have scrutinized the many sights,

And I foresee the storm approaching.


Wasting My Breath

I keep dreaming I am drowning.
I struggle to breathe,
To fall asleep,
Then crash beneath a still surface
Unable to emerge through the tension
I chop at the waters

I awake in spasms
Chucking away breaths
Like playing cards at a hat
Waiting to fall again
Beneath the calm surface
To sleep.


One Masterpiece

I’ve shaped these verses
Searching for the form unshown
The composition rehearsed
Illusive and unknown
That speaks to the truths
Standing ever alone.
There’s an ember in the ashes
That must always survive,
And a young vine amongst devastation
Spreading, stretching, thriving
Producing fruit in the face of adversity
In the mass of wasted dying:
It produces new life.

I have seen this all my days,
And I chisel my words
A million different ways
Hoping to expose the form
Of the sacred work

Of the Ancient of Days.


On Time

All I haven’t done for You
Trembles in my anticipations
How I’d hoped by now to compose
Some grand gesture of affirmation-
All these years of practice, yet
I haven’t learned to be brave.
Father, when You come to me,
Come to save.


An Orchard, A Gale, A Rose in Ruins

It amazes me
On the days of minor keys-
Of travelling andante
Beyond middle seas
How so many continue
Against tide and tow,
Through gust and gale,
Past all they know
Or wish to know
Deeper into the ache
How they take the storm
They cannot shake
Riding the billows
To their own natural causes
When an artificial respite
Rife with indelicate clauses
Closes the current.

Our lives are tossed
In tremulous tenderness
Amongst the ruins of beauty
The slender bliss
Of reminiscing spent sonnets
Spinning into requiem
And I fear the lyrics
Filling the symposium
May shorten a stay.
We weep at the end
For all the strokes misplaced
The brokenness we sinned
Against each other, against beauty,
We watch the shadows
Grope the ruins
An orchard fallow-
We feel the betrayal.

It amazes me,
The single petal drifting to earth
Dying in desperate breaths
Of beauty, tangled in birth
On its way to the grave
Delicate, intricate, fragile
A vulnerable masterpiece
Falling gradually
To sudden rest:
Eternal consummate sleep.
Even the blossom’s innocence
Finds no safe keep
In the palm of shadows
Will beauty inhale?
I yearn that she stretch awake
Shushing the gale
That wrecks me

Awaken and reign
in indestructible
and exquisite frailty.


To the Ancient of Days

I see my impotence,
My selfishishness,
My sin and paralysis.
It may be
The best song I ever sing
Is an elegy,
My best witness
An epitaph.
Let all these gentle moments
You’ve poured out upon me
Survive.

Let them live.

Whatever years stretch before me,
Though crippled to action
As I have always been,
Harvest some morsel of affection
You may enjoy every now and again,
Let those morsels survive.

Because I am nothing,
But I’ve been marked by
All in All.


You Are Here

And all these days
I was content to wander,
To wonder through the bus windows
About the galaxies of rain
To squander
The potential of the future
On the resignations of the past
I have traveled slow years
Through fast miles
And I miss the sunshine
Warming my skin
Imagining it was Your love
Because it’s easier to imagine
Than to take hold, to live in,
To consume,
To assume the responsibility;
Love bears responsibility.

I can’t ride the old bus ticket forever.
Some part of my soul passes
Every open station
Intransigent in my seat
Because eventually I bring every love
Back to the scene of the storm,
Back to the soaked debris,
And strewn heirlooms
Back to the caved roof
And shattered glass windows.

I used to think it reduced to one:
I couldn’t be loved
But how well I’ve been loved
All the while
By the best of us.
The truth: try as I might,
I cannot love.
All my love is tied to destruction-
It is tossed amongst the strewn debris.
How may I recover what is lost?
How can I lift my love
From the muddy bed of grief?

If all these years haven’t done it,
What other salve remains?
Is there a balm
For the phantom limb?

Continuing forward is no progress.
Will it always ache?
Who can bear the legs
Unable to support their own weight?


Round and Round the Mulberry Bush

I speak, eloquently or plainly,
In the extremes of a fanatic
But I let the smallest things restrain me
And that is
To my great shame.

Perfect love casts out fear
Yet I crawl under the heavy hand
And sabotage what love draws near
Because all that I can understand
Is the child handled severely,
And ultimately abandoned.


Wracked

When I consider many ages ago,
The many deprivations, many blows,
This body’s sustained-
Of course it still complains.
My last efforts burned my final reserves
I fight for upright, but sag and curve
To inevitable rest
I pray the next doctor knows best
How to undue the bitter years

Still working themselves out in my flesh.

For now, the pain is presumed
The aching, racing, burning resumes
The sharp pain like cutting wakes
Like shattered glass, or driving stakes,
The dull pain that sits on me askew
Haranguing all I try to do.
At length, I forget to be my friend
As all my failures swirl and blend
Into one monstrous masterpiece

Of hideous impotence.


Grace be Ageless

Time enters into birthing
Screaming at crimes
Both real and imagined,
Travailing, waiting before the Divine
Either gnashing or trembling,
Begging for more time,
But the contractions come
One wave after another-

Am I prepared?
Has anything I’ve done mattered?
Have I lived a life pleasing to You?